


More Than Just Moonlight

by lousy_science



Series: The Does What it Says on the Tin series [10]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Bars and Pubs, Drinking, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: Against the pub wall smut.





	More Than Just Moonlight

“Duh-duh-de-duh,” Collins thumped his chest, “duh-duh-de-dilly-duh-dah!”

The RAF had not selected him for his musical ability. Farrier was walking a few lengths ahead of him, the sound of Glenn Miller coming from the pub dying out as Collins, Ned, Smithy and the new kid, Barton, sang what they could remember of the melody. 

Training had gone well, and everyone came back from their runs. There had been a movie after tea time, some soppy thing with Ronald Colman, but it turned out that Collins harboured a soft spot for Rosalind Russell so Farrier had been forced to watch it from the front row. 

Which lead, as all roads did, to the pub. It had been decided that Barton needed to come out of his shell a little, and so the poor kid had been pushed into a dance with Lucy, the publican’s daughter, a six-foot country girl used to lifting beer barrels, with the biceps to prove it. Barton, a skinny lad from Lancashire with fine pale eyelashes, clung to her broad shoulders and let her whisk him around the floor. Lucy was a kind soul, and let them have a bit of a laugh, but stopped playing along when that berk Peterson shouted out something rude. She set Barton aside and gave Peterson a piece of her mind, and her Dad threw him out on his arse, to the collective cheers of the squad. 

Somehow this turned Barton into the star of the night, and he was stood pint after pint until his fair face turned pink and his legs were going jelly-like. Farrier had a quiet word with Collins that they should get him tucked into bed, and Collins looked over at him with an arched eyebrow. Farrier glowered back; his interest was in keeping the boy safe from any more mischief, and this night was shaping up to be full of it. 

Farrier lit a cigarette, and shook the match out. Ned was reenacting Barton’s dance with Lucy with Smithy, while Barton was doubled over in laughter and Collins was doing some inexplicable jig next to him. The road they were on was dark, and snaked around the edges of the woods to the base, away from the family homes on the other side of the pub. At least they wouldn’t be keeping anyone awake. 

He watched them for a moment, young, loose-limbed and ridiculous, Ned a half-decent waltzer but Smithy a terrible partner, Barton laughing with relief as much as incredulity; he’d had his first near-miss last week in a Spitfire, had tasted death for a second, and now on land he was beginning to step into the team, become one of them. Farrier remembered when Collins had walked in with the same nervous energy, the barely-hidden desire to be accepted.

In a second he’d move them on, hurry them into the bunks like a bunch of tired puppies. 

“You pack of Nancys, what are you doing there?”

Peterson’s bark rang out in the cool night air. Farrier turned to where he was standing in the shadows, barely visible against the shuttered dark of the trees behind him. 

Farrier flicked his hand towards the voice, urged him to melt back into the shadows. “Get on with you,”

He lurched forward into the middle of the path. Spat on the ground. “Make me, Farrier.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Peterson. Clear off. We’re just taking the new lad back to base.”

“Him?” Peterson pointed over Farrier’s shoulder to where Barton was standing. “He doesn’t deserve to sleep with us. Pansy, softcock, these bloody infants they’re sending us,”

 _Bloody infants._ Clifford Merrick had been Peterson’s navigator for eight weeks. Just twenty, he’d died a month ago, before Barton had arrived. Merrick hadn’t been a very good navigator, and he and Peterson had fought constantly. Farrier didn’t know what part of Peterson’s heart had hurt when he lost Merrick, but he knew it wasn’t going to be won back by fighting Barton. 

Which was what Peterson clearly planned to do, by the way he was advancing. “Out of my way, Farrier, I’m not interested in you. Or,” he leaned in to sneer at him, “your pretty boy there. I want to see if this new lad can cut it where it matters.”

Collins had shoved Barton behind him, shielding him with his body. Ned and Smithy were frozen in place, watching Peterson stagger forwards. Peterson was stinking drunk, but he was also a thickset truck driver with a wrestler’s build. 

Farrier gave diplomacy one more shot. “How about you head back to the pub and see if there’s another round for you? Lucy’s probably calmed down now.”

“Don’t talk to me about that bitch. And you, you little weasel, get out from behind that Jock bastard and face me.”

At that, Collins lifted his fists, automatically moving his weight to his back leg. He’d paid attention during Farrier’s lessons, then. Good lad. He was ready to swing at Peterson, who was a couple of inches taller and had a stone of muscle on him, not the smartest of moves but certainly a brave one. 

Not that he would get the chance. Farrier said Peterson’s name just loud enough for him to hear it and turn his head back, and decked him with his left fist. 

Peterson’s back hit the road with a thump. 

“Cor,” Smithy said, standing over him. “That was better than the pictures.”

Ned nudged him with his boot. Peterson moaned, and rolled over, but made no move to get up. Barton looked down at him with eyes like saucers, instantly sobered up. 

Collins hurried them all along, pushing them down the road. “Go on, get him back to base, alright chaps? You’re fine, aren’t you, Barton?”

Barton nodded numbly, tripping on his feet as the other two pulled him down the road towards the distant gates around the corner. 

Turning back to Farrier, who was relighting his smoke, Collins cleared his throat. 

Farrier looked up. “You’re not going to start singing again?”

Sinking his hands in his pockets, he shook his head. “No, I’ll spare him - ” he nodded towards Peterson’s prone form, “any more pain.”

“Good. C’mon,” Farrier waved him backwards, down the road in the other direction. 

 

Outside the pub was a brick wall, jutting out at a right angle to follow the shape of the neighbouring building. Behind the wall the sounds of the last drinkers continued on, Glen Miller having been replaced with a bluesy ballad. 

“You don’t think Peterson will come back?”

“With a broken nose?” Farrier had felt it give against his knuckles. “No. Let him crawl back to base, be better if we’re not coming in the same time.”

Collins leaned in, pressing Farrier against the cold wall. His breath was warm on Farrier’s throat. “You took him out so quickly, I barely saw it happen. Let me look at your hand.”

Lifting up his left arm, he let Collins hold it between their bodies, turning the palm over to examine his fingers in the low light. Soft lips brushed over the raw skin as a thumb rubbed smooth circles on the inside of his wrist. Farrier tried not to hold his breath. He could melt like this, go down quicker than Peterson had. 

“You’ll have to show me, again, how to do that.” 

Moving his hand up to brush through Collins’s hair, Farrier murmured, “Don’t need you to fight,”

“You say that, but you know I wanna learn.” Collins had moved his head into Farrier’s grasp, following each stroke eagerly. Farrier could feel his smile forming with the tightening skin on the side of his face. 

Hands kneaded at Farrier’s chest, lovingly pressing over his heart and lungs. Lips skimmed the edge of his jawline, whispering into his ear, “Loved watching that. Love seeing what you can do.”

Farrier exhaled sharply, wrapping his hands around Collins’s waist, letting him be pushed harder against the wall, the heat of another body making his blood pump. He didn’t want any space between them. 

The kiss was wet and ardent, Collins putting all his exhilaration and gratitude into it. Farrier let his head be tipped back, his tongue caught up in sudden, desperate desire. 

Too soon Collins pulled back, Farrier nipping forward with empty lips, chasing him and getting only air. Hands were on his belt buckle, and Collins’s blond head at his hips with Farrier’s fingers still furrowed through his hair. 

“You don’t have to - ”

“I need to. So much. Let me,” and Collins wasn’t one for so much naked pleading, usually, but now his voice was rough with want. Farrier helped him unloop the thick leather belt to get to the zipper. Those clever fingers pulled out Farrier’s cock, which had gone hard as soon as his back hit the wall. 

It’d been too long since he’d had Collins, whole weeks, and the dizzying dimensions of his mouth were so sweetly refreshing. The night bled away around him as Collins took him between his lips. 

Farrier sank down into his heels, eyes closed, as Collins’s tongue lapped at the head of his cock. Then he pushed him farther down his throat, and Farrier nearly choked in sympathy, his nerves firing all at once. Hands cupped at the delicate skin of his balls, rolling them, as Collins’s throat worked around him. The sounds he was making, gasping on Farrier’s length, were like an engine’s early rattles, all liquid and harsh wheezes. 

He was never going to think of anything else, but this. Apart from the wall, and this wet heat, and the thin air he tried to breathe in, there was nothing else, for a few crystal moments. 

When he broke, he yelped, like he’d been hit himself. His eyes flew open and he realised that he’d clamped his hands on Collins’s shoulders. “God, I’m sorry,”

On his knees, Collins was beaming up at him. His face was a mess. He looked beautiful. 

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

Farrier pulled him to his feet and let Collins buckle and zip him back up. He stayed for a few more seconds there, just leaning, letting his body be held upright as his head began to return to earth. 

 

“D’you think Barton’s one of us?” 

They were walking back to base, keeping close to centre of the road. 

Farrier kicked a pebble. “Say so. Looks around all the time, always watching what people might be looking at him. No interest in Lucy, that’s for sure.”

Collins nudged him with a shoulder. “He watches you.” 

“I know,” 

There wasn’t much else for Farrier to say. He’d clocked the lad’s eyes following him, the interest in them shining so brightly that the kid couldn’t know how much he was revealing. 

“Are you tempted?”

Farrier stopped short, spun on his heel. “Are you joking?”

Collins shrugged, half-smiling, as if what he just said didn’t matter. Even in the dark, Farrier could make out the cast of his eyes, which said the exact opposite. 

Farrier smacked him lightly between the shoulders. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

The gravel under their boots rattled with the steady rhythm of their footfall. Above them, the moon shone down on the last corner in the road, the track that would take them back to base. There weren’t any songs left to sing, but the night had its own melodies to accompany them home. 


End file.
